She picked up the bottle gingerly.  Who had touched it?  Her mind was working quickly.  Somewhere she had read of finger prints and the subject had interested her because the system had been introduced in banks and she saw that it was going to become more and more important.

But how did they get them in a case like this?  She had read of some powder that adhered to the marks left by the sweat glands of the fingers.  There was the talcum powder.  Perhaps it would do.

Quickly she shook the box gently over the glass.  Then she blew it off carefully.

Clear, sharp, distinct, there were the imprints of fingers!

But the paper.  Talcum powder would not bring them out on that.  It must be something black.

A lead pencil!  Eagerly she seized it and with, a little silver pen-knife whittled off the wood.  Scrape! scrape! until she had a neat little pile of finely powdered graphite.

Then she poured it on the paper and taking the sheet daintily by the edges, so that she would not mix her own finger prints with the others, she rolled the powder back and forth.  As she looked anxiously she could see the little grains adhering to the paper.

A fine camel’s hair brush lay on the table, for penciling.  She took it deftly.  It made her think of that first time when she painted the checks for Carlton.  A lump came into her throat.

There they were, the second pair of telltale prints.  But what tale did they tell?  Whose were they?

Her reading on finger prints had been very limited but, like everything she did, to the point.  She studied those before her, traced out as best she could the loops, whorls, arches, and composites, even counted the ridges on some of them.  It was not so difficult, after all.

She stopped in an uptown branch of her brokers in one of the hotels.  The market was very quiet, and even the Rubber Syndicate seemed to be marking time.  As she went out she passed the telephone booths.  Should she call up Warrington?  Would he misinterpret it?  What if he did?  She was mistress of her own tongue.  She need not say too much.  Besides, if she were going on a fishing expedition, a telephone line was as good as any other—­better than a visit.

“This is Mrs. Dunlap,” she said directly.

“Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Dunlap.  I have been intending to call you up, but,” he paused, and added, “you know we are having a pretty strenuous time down here.”

There was a genuine ring to the first part of his reply.  But the rest of it trailed off into the old blase tone.

“I’m sorry,” she replied.  “I enjoyed last night so much.”

“Did you?” came back eagerly.

Before he could add anything she asked, “I suppose you are going to see Stella again this afternoon.”

“Why—­er—­yes,” he hesitated.  “I think so.”

“Where?  At Vera’s?” she asked, adopting a tone not of curiosity but of chiding him for seeing Stella instead of herself.